


Blessings Accepted and Blessings Deserved

by pendrecarc



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 12:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11851560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendrecarc/pseuds/pendrecarc
Summary: Several months after taking up residence in Roa, Costis and Kamet fill their days with domestic labor, spycraft, and literary analysis.





	Blessings Accepted and Blessings Deserved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Canon_Is_Relative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/gifts).



“Can I help you with that?”

I hadn’t heard Costis come in, and his voice at my shoulder made me blink. That in turn sent the words swimming across the page and out of focus. I bit back a curse and brought a hand up to rub at my eyes. “Help me?”

He'd bent over the little desk under the kitchen window. It was a desk only because it was covered in parchment and pens and inkpots, of course. No doubt whoever lived in this house before us had used it for chopping their onions and kneading their bread. It was the brightest part of the house in the evening, though, so I had claimed it for my own. If I sat here until the sun began to set, I could eke out a precious hour or two of natural light before resorting to the lamps.

“With the letters,” said Costis. “Your eyes must hurt. First you copy scrolls all day in that temple, then you come back here and write all evening. That’s in Attolian, isn’t it?” He nodded at the parchment I’d been wrestling with. “I could read it aloud if you want.” He must have read my surprise as hesitation. “Unless it’s personal. Never mind.”

“No, nothing personal,” I said. “Thank you. I would appreciate that. It might be confidential,” I added after a moment’s thought, “but not from you.”

He smiled and went to set down the sack slung over one shoulder. I hadn’t heard him come in, but I ought to have smelled him. He was always trailing around the scent of fresh cuttings and damp earth. Today it was sweet oleander and the sharp tang of an evergreen I didn’t know. He laid out his samples in neat piles on the wooden counter. Between us, we’d repurposed nearly every surface the house had to offer. From the bottom of the sack he took a wicker basket that had held his lunch and a leather pouch that held more interesting things: a plumb line with its little lead weight, a precision-tuned compass, a slim telescope, and a loose sheaf of notes. He walked over to the fireplace built into the wall that separated the kitchen and dining space from the living quarters, stooped down, and shoved the pouch up the chimney for safekeeping. He’d installed a grate for the purpose the day we arrived. Soon the weather would turn colder, I thought, and we'd have to find a more permanent hiding place.

“Sit here,” I said, standing when he moved toward the rough stool beside the oven. If I’d been straining my eyes all day, he’d been clambering up and down the steep cliffs over the Ellid Sea.

He took my chair with a grunt of relief. It was the most comfortable in the house, with thick padding on the seat and tooled leather on the arms. I smiled to myself as I moved toward the cupboard where we kept the wine cups. My standards for comfort had changed a great deal since I left Ianna-Ir.

“A whole packet came in today,” I said, pouring him a cup of the sour local white. No-one ever moved to Magyar for the wine. “You have letters, too.”

“I saw the ship,” he said, taking the wine with a nod of thanks.

“I set them aside for you, if you’d prefer to start with your own.”

“They can wait. We probably won’t hear from Attolia for another month. I’d rather make them last.” He wet his throat before smoothing the parchment down on the desk. “Where should I start?”

I’d been halfway through that first letter before I arrived, but I liked the sound of his voice. “From the beginning.”

He nodded. “ ‘Kay,’ ” he began:

“ _Thank you for the dried specimens you enclosed in your last letter. They survived the voyage with only a little water damage, and I’ve forwarded them to the botanist friend I mentioned. I’ve also sent a set of oiled packets as better protection for next time, if your energetic young friend can spare a few more samples._ ”

My energetic young friend broke off, a twist of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “Who is this from?”

“Sounis’ magus.”

Costis raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t think my new hobby would attract such wide-ranging interest.”

“It’s a good excuse for correspondence,” I said. I didn’t think we had attracted any attention in our modest house in this seaside backwater, but I knew enough to plan for the eventuality. And Relius might have dropped a word to that affect in my ear just before my departure. “It also sets a precedent if we ever need to send anything more substantial than a letter.”

Costs absorbed this without comment, then went back to his reading. “ _I’ve come by a copy of that book our friend in Attolia mentioned, in which a Pentian astronomer argues that the earth orbits the sun, and not the reverse. It’s not in archaic, which I know you read, but in the old Peninsular language. I would like to make a translation if I can ever find the time._

“ _Which reminds me that you mentioned some interesting records from an observatory that used to be located near Zaboar. Do you think—_ ”

As he read, I cut lengths of twine from the large coil on the counter and began to tie up the samples he’d brought in. They hung in mismatched clumps by the dozen from the rough-hewn rafters. They also shed little bits of blossom and leaf as they dried, so when I was finished I took up the broom standing in the corner and began to sweep the cracked tiles of our floor.

By the time I was done, I had heard all about the difficulties of delivering manuscripts from the Peninsula and about the reorganization of the royal library in Sounis. Not so long ago, I would have scoffed at the idea that Sounis had anything worth organizing in the first place. The magus complained of the state the library had fallen into during his recent absence and regretted not having more time to spare for the project.

“ _Perhaps,_ ” Costis read, “ _when we’re done with these voluntary annexations and armed insurrections and foreign invasions, I’ll do this properly._ ” A worthy thought, but in my opinion overly optimistic. Sounis would survive no longer than Attolia once the Mede Empire gave up pretending disinterest. “ _In the meantime, I make do with the occasional spare moment. Yesterday I did unearth something that might be of interest to you. I had one of our secretaries copy this out. My apologies for any inaccuracies. My Ensur is nearly nonexistent, and I can’t speak to the quality of the original._

“ _The page I found was annotated by one of my predecessors, who met a wealthy merchant from Sukir and took a rubbing from one of the tablets he had in his luggage._ ”

I’d wandered closer as he read, drawn like a magnet to the promise of old Ensur. Now I stood over the desk and reached eagerly for the letter.

The page I was looking for was folded at the very bottom of the stack. I could tell at once that it had not been copied by any great scholar of Ensur. The wedge-shaped characters were awkward and blocky, lacking the economy of space and the clean geometric composition of the tablets I had been fortunate enough to work with in Ianna-Ir. I squinted down at the first lines, then blinked when a lamp flared into life at my shoulder. I hadn’t noticed when Costis stopped reading.

“I can see you’re going to waste all my efforts at resting your eyes,” he said, amused. “What does it say?”

“It’s one of the tablets of Immakuk and Ennikar,” I said, lifting the paper closer to the lamp. I pointed to the characters that made up Ennikar’s name, and Costis made an interested sound. “The tale of Cassa’s honey, I think. This retelling looks familiar, but it’s not the one I translated.”

“Can you translate it now?”

“This minute? Not eloquently.”

He grinned. It lit up the room brighter than the evening sunlight had done. “I’m an easy audience. Uneducated Attolian, remember?”

I snorted. “Yes, I can translate it. Will you make dinner?”

He filled the kitchen with the smell of onions and garlic and the quick chop of his knife, giving me time to read and think. When he had browned the cubes of lamb and put them in with the vegetables to simmer, I cleared my throat. I had to go slowly. I had been living and working in an odd mixture of archaic and the unfamiliar Roan dialect. Ensur was a muscle I hadn’t stretched in months, and I found myself translating first to Mede in my head, then awkwardly and aloud to demotic:

> On the road Ennikar learned about  
>  Blessings seized and blessings offered.  
>  Hungered and thirsted, Strong Ennikar,  
>  Found himself lonely, Handsome Ennikar,  
>  Who had known feasts of meat and wine  
>  The smiles of maidens showered on him poured on him at every turn.  
>  Came he to the honeyed hives of Cassa  
>  Came he to the streams of clear water  
>  Where the flowers grew where her warriors feasted.  
>  Feasted too, Hungry Ennikar  
>  On the sweetness Cassa offered  
>  Bathed honey-smeared in the clear stream.

“That Ennikar,” Costis said. “Always with a maid. I thought Cassa was angry with him in this story?”

“That depends on the retelling. She offers him the honey, according to some.”

“The honey, was it?"

Primly, I raised my eyes to the herbs dangling from the rafters. “Certainly the honey.” When I lowered my eyes again, he was watching me, dubious. I relented. “The poetry is filled with tropes, you must have noticed.”

“Brave Ennikar, strong Ennikar,” he said, nodding. “It’s a little repetitive.”

“It’s stylized. The poets make use of words and phrases that will mean more to the reader because of the cultural context. These are centuries of stories, told over and over in a kind of shorthand. Sometimes the word or a phrase is a euphemism.”

“Oh,” said Costis. A flush crept up from his collar.

“So,” I agreed. I turned back to the page.

> Left the stream carrying the sweet blessing of Cassa  
>  Met wise wandering Immakuk and shared his takings from the hives.

“Or at least I assume he did,” I said, squinting. “The last lines aren’t copied very well. But he shares the honey with Immakuk in most versions.”

“Wait,” Costis said. “You said the honey was a euphemism.”

“So,” I said, laughing at the look on his face. “As is the anointing with the oil of the gods, for that matter. You didn’t notice?” Centuries of readers would have understood the nature of Immakuk and Ennikar’s relationship perfectly well--the role of cultural context, I supposed.

“No.” Costis was very red now, and I didn’t think it was all from the heat of the stove.

I took pity on him. “That was a rough translation,” I said. “I’ll work on a better one. Is dinner ready?”

Our meal was a quiet affair, but then it usually was after a long day. As we moved through our nightly routine I caught an odd frown passing across his face. We were easy enough with each other by then that I could have asked him about it. I'd come to know him very well, though, and had learned that what I had at first taken for stupidity was really his way of working silently through a question. He would present the answer, when he had found it, in his own time.

We shared a small house with smaller sleeping quarters. There were two beds, both narrow, set on either side of the fireplace. I came in to find Costis thumbing through his letters.

“Two from my sister,” he said. “I’ve been wondering if she’s expecting yet, but she doesn’t say.”

“I thought you wanted to make them last?”

“I got impatient.”

“You?” I teased. Then I thought about it. “Are you homesick?”

He looked up in surprise. “No, not really. Are you?”

“No,” I said. I missed easy access to expensive wine and an expansive library, yes, but Ianna-Ir had not been home for some time.

I got into my bed, and tucking the letters carefully under his mattress Costis doused the lamp.

“Sleep well,” I said into the darkness between us.

 

He was up before me the next day, out with his surveying equipment and his sack of grubby plants. I lingered over my coffee and a second letter, this one from Relius, to whom the magus had evidently written about the Pentian astronomer. He asked after the narrative of my escape from the Mede empire, which was by that point complete up to our departure from Koadester, and wanted to know whether I’d found any more scrolls by Enoclitus. I took my time writing a lengthy reply. When at last I left for the temple the sun was high and the air as warm as it was likely to get so late in the year.

I was welcomed back to my work with brief nods and murmured greetings in half a dozen different accents. Upon our arrival in Roa, I had remembered Attolis’ warning of danger and had been wary of being too friendly. In the months since then, however, I’d found a pleasant fellowship with the other foreign scholars gathered in the temple. They asked questions, but mostly about my interpretation of a tricky turn of phrase, and they gossiped, but mostly about people who had been dead for centuries. I had no real fear of discovery from these men.

Usually I took to the work with a will, but just as I had that morning, I found it difficult to concentrate. I kept thinking of Costis clambering up the cliffside paths. I wondered if he had worked through whatever problem had been worrying him the night before.

I took my leave early and hurried home, wondering if he had returned yet, but the house was empty. I aired out our bedclothes, mended the pair of pants Costis had torn on an especially stubborn bramble, and scrubbed grease from the sides of the stove until my arms ached. These were tasks I would have been far too proud to do for Nahuseresh, but I had learned it was different to do them for myself. Different as well to do them for Costis.

As the light began to fade, I looked wistfully at my copy of the tablet, but I had more urgent projects at hand. My narrative for Relius, of course, but also an account of more recent events: which foreign powers had sent scholars to the temple in the last months, and what merchant ships had docked in the harbor that week. It would be hidden above the fireplace with Costis’ observations, then sent on to Attolia when it could be delivered safely.

Costis usually came home before sunset, but he didn’t always. It seemed as though it would be one of those evenings. At length I ate dinner on my own, giving up on work for the night. I nursed the dregs of sour wine for longer than they deserved.

The shadows grew longer, I trimmed the lamp, and still he didn’t appear. I wasn’t really worried about him, I told myself—but I admit I was straining to hear the sound of his step outside, and when it came at last I jumped to my feet.

The door opened. He dropped his sack on the floor. It landed with an odd, wet thump.

“You’re home,” I said.

“Yes.” He sounded tired. I walked across the room to him. As I got closer, his indistinct form grew clearer, and I saw he was covered in dirt.

I stared. “Are you all right?”

He looked sheepish. “It’s nothing serious. Just—” He held up his right hand. It was a swollen, mottled red.

I let out a low exclamation and reached for him without thought. “What have you done to yourself?”

“Bee stings,” he said as I turned his hand over, examining first the callused palm and then the hardened knuckles. “There are a few hives up near one of the observation points I’ve been staking out. I stumbled on my way home. Fell right into one.”

“And muddied yourself head to toe,” I said absently. Half a dozen angry welts dotted his skin. Two of them still had tiny black spines in the center. “Sit down. We should clean this up.”

He sat obediently as I fetched a large pot of water—I’d meant to heat it for a bath before bed, the height of luxury these days, but no matter—and stoked the cooking fire. As the water began slowly to warm, I wet a small towel so he could wipe the dirt from his face. I prodded one of the welts, and he jerked his hand back with a small sound of protest.

I lifted my eyebrows. “So, so, so,” I said. “The hardened soldier brought low by a handful of insects.”

“They’ll heal on their own,” he said. “No reason to fuss.”

“You haven’t gotten all the stingers out yet.”

“I did try,” he said, as though it was a personal criticism.

“Well,” I said, “then let me finish,” and took his hand gently in mine.

Despite the cool evening, his skin was warm with hours of exertion. It glowed, almost, with the heat of the blood pumping beneath it. The first of the stingers was on the hard swell of muscle at the base of his thumb. I teased at it for a few moments until it slid free. Costis had gone very still, I noticed, his other hand frozen in the act of dragging the towel across the back of his neck.

The other was in the shallow bowl of his palm. I tried to pluck this one out the same way as first, but the little barb was buried stubbornly between a pair of long, thin scars running across his palm. I had trimmed my nails just that morning, carving off ink-stained slivers that left my fingers too blunt for such delicate purchase. I hesitated, then bent to take the stinger between my teeth.

I had to press quite close to grasp it, lips parted against the roughened skin of his soldier’s hand. He tasted of salt, sweat and the sea, and of something sweeter beneath it. Honey, I realized, just as the barb came loose. I sat up and turned away to spit it into my empty wine cup.

“There,” I said, but I didn’t look at him; the warmth of his hand had leeched into my cheeks, and I didn’t want him to see me blush. “You should finish cleaning up. Are you hungry?”

It felt like an age before he replied. “Starving.”

He accepted the cold meal without complaint. I felt his eyes on me as I tore a few cloves of garlic from the bundle where we kept our seasonings, then began to mash them with the hilt of our bread knife.

“It draws out the venom,” I explained, offering him the pungent mass. “Rub it into the stings.”

He nodded as I met his gaze at last. He looked thoughtful as well as embarrassed, but he only said, “Thank you. It was clumsy of me.”

I considered the number of times I’d stumbled over my own feet on our flight through the empire, and I thought of the care with which he’d stitched up my scalp after our encounter with the Namreen. “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

He finished washing off the mud, cursing under his breath. I cleaned up the remains of our dinner. Once he had gone into the back of the house I walked over to the window and leaned out to feel the cold night air against my face, breathing deeply.

When I turned back, I stumbled over something near the door. It was the sack he’d dropped there. I stooped down to pick it up, then nearly dropped it. It was sodden and sticky under my hands.

Curious, I pulled it open and looked inside. There was the leather pouch with his surveying equipment and his notes, and there was the wicker basket where he packed his lunch. That was the source of the stuff on my fingers. I held it under the lamp to see better, then prodded gently at the slab of honeycomb.

So, so, so.

I went into the back room. He was sitting on his bed, the injured hand in his lap. “You stumbled on your way home?” I asked.

I couldn’t see him well, but even from the other side of the room I could tell he was blushing. “Well, yes. Because I was running from a hive of angry bees.”

“Furious Cassa drove him off,” I quoted, “sent her warriors against him stinging until he fled—”

He cut me off with a wry laugh. And I’d thought, once, that he had no sense of humor. “Brave Ennikar.”

I smiled. “Was there a pretty maid on the cliffs today to share her honey with you?”

“Ah,” Costis said. “No, there wasn’t.”

When Nahuseresh was my master, I had known pride and ambition. I’d thought I might run the empire, a trusted advisor to the most powerful men in the world. It had been a self-important dream but not an unrealistic one. My ambitions had changed a great deal since I left Ianna-Ir, narrowing to the approximate size of a house in Roa, and the hopes I nurtured were small and impossible ones. Or so I’d thought, once.

“Brave Costis,” I said. “I never would have thought to ask.”

He didn’t say, _Ask for what?_ Instead he took a sharp breath. I saw the quick rise and fall of his chest. “I'm going to look like a fool if you say you don’t want me, Kamet.”

“Gods forbid.”

“Is that a so then?”

His mouth tasted sweet, like a blessing shared. “So it is.”


End file.
